


Nothing Will Remain

by elrhiarhodan



Series: Nothing Will Remain 'Verse [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Backstory, Case Fic, F/M, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Pre-Slash, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:44:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1265293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A near-canon A/U, where Neal Caffrey isn’t a forger and thief, but young Wall Street wizard who legitimately worked for Vincent Adler. He’s just out of prison, having served four years for investment fraud. He finds a job as a bookkeeper for Elizabeth Burke, Peter Burke’s ex-wife. Elizabeth and Peter have remained on excellent terms, and El wants to set Neal up on a blind date with him. But that’s not going to work as Neal’s past and Peter’s caseload collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Will Remain

  
  
“El, I don’t want to go out on a date with your ex-husband.”  
  
His boss just gave him The Look.  
  
Neal wasn’t the least bit cowed. “I’m sure that Peter’s a perfectly nice guy and I think it’s fantastic that you’ve remained such close friends with your ex that you try and fix him up, but could you really see me and an FBI agent?”  
  
“I don’t see why not, Neal. You’re just Peter’s type…a tall, leggy, blue-eyed brunet. And you’re smart. Peter likes smart.” This wasn’t the first time she’d tried to set them up and Neal had to give her points for consistency.  
  
“I’m also a criminal. I’m an ex-con who did four years hard time for investment fraud. And I believe you told me that your former husband is the head of the White Collar division.”  
  
Elizabeth shrugged, as of that was irrelevant. “I doubt he’s ever heard of you.”  
  
Neal had to concede that point. “You’re right, probably not. I was small beans for the FBI. They were looking for someone to blame and I was the only one conveniently available.”  
  
“And you’re not really a criminal.” She gave him a different look, one that was full of sympathy. Neal hated that look.  
  
“I beg to differ. I pled guilty, _ergo_ , I am a criminal. And I somehow doubt your ex will want to date a criminal.” Even after this long, the word was still like gall in his mouth.  
  
“Former criminal.”  
  
It was Neal’s turn to shrug. “Look, I appreciate your interest in my social life –”  
  
“You don’t have a social life. You work, you go home at night and you come back here every day. The same routine, day in and day out for pretty much the last year or so. You need to get out more instead of sitting home by yourself, playing with your art supplies.”  
  
“Playing with my art supplies? Nice, El. Really nice.” Neal pretended to be insulted, but the truth was not that far off. He was a talentless hack. He could copy anything, but he lacked the spark of true creativity.  
  
El wasn’t going to be diverted from her quest. “Look, Peter’s a good man. He won’t hold your past against you. You’re reformed, remember?”  
  
“I guess…” He grinned at her. This was an old game. And despite his repeated use of the word, Neal knew he really wasn’t a criminal, he’d just been cast as one by the Government and circumstances.  
  
She slapped the back of his head. “What do you mean, _you guess_? You’re my cousin. Are you stealing from me?”  
  
Neal smiled and refused to rise to the bait. “You books are perfectly balanced, every penny accounted for. You have nothing to worry about.”  
  
“Like how you didn’t answer, slick.”  
  
“I don’t steal from friends and family.” Elizabeth was definitely both and Neal wasn’t sure he’d have survived without her.  
  
“You don’t steal, period.” El gave him a rueful smile and rubbed the back of his head, where she’d smacked him. She knew the truth, the whole sad story.  
  
Neal turned back to the computer screen and finished entering the last invoice. He hit the print button and the machine next to the desk started spitting out paper. This week’s check run.  
  
Being the bookkeeper for El’s small event planning business was a long way from his days as one of Wall Street’s masters of the universe, earning every penny of his seven-figure salary and his deluxe lifestyle. Back then, he thought nothing of working seventy or eighty hours a week, flying all over the world at a moment’s notice, always ready to close the next deal.  
  
Now, his life was circumscribed by the limitations of a very low-limit credit card and the meagre contents of his bank account. El paid him enough to afford rent in a walkup in Astoria, a monthly Metrocard, and some second-rate art supplies, but not much more than that.  
  
He really had to thank his lucky stars that he had someone willing to help him, to let him make a chance at redemption. As a convicted felon, even for a white collar crime, he had little chance of making an honest living.  
  
He had been a fool. Instead of taking the Fed’s offer of immunity if he rolled on his boss, he refused to testify; believing that it was all some big mistake, that there was no way that the man was running a massive Ponzi scheme. Then his boss ran off, all the money disappeared and he pretty much had no choice.  
  
With everything gone, he had no leverage and the Government’s offer of immunity had vanished like his good name and reputation. In exchange for a four-year sentence at Club Fed, he told the Feds everything he knew and forfeited just about of all his assets. They made it clear that if he went to trial, he’d be facing life, and then some.  
  
“Want to have dinner with me tonight?” El’s question interrupted his bitter musings.  
  
“Just us two? No ex-husband who just ‘happens’ to be in the neighborhood?”  
  
“Nope, but I could ask Peter …”  
  
“El – for the last time, no. Fixing me up is a bad idea. Setting me up on a blind date with an FBI agent is an even worse idea.” He’d been working for his cousin for a year, but had never met her ex.  
  
Elizabeth held up her hands in the classic gesture of surrender. “All right, no blind dates. But I still think that you and Peter would be a great match.”  
  
“Why, because we’re both gay?”  
  
“No, because you’re both smart.”  
  
That took the wind out of his sails. Regardless, he wasn’t going to go out on a date with Elizabeth’s ex-husband. And that was final.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
“Okay, people. Settle down, settle down.” Peter’s recent promotion to ASAC really didn’t change how things were run in the White Collar Division. He still sat in on the morning tag up meetings, oversaw assignments, and went out in the field when it suited him (which it often did). But now Clinton Jones actually ran the meetings, handed out assignments, fielded questions.  
  
Today was different. Something major landed on his desk and the brass in DC wanted him to take care of it personally.  
  
One of the probies – Blake – handed out files to everyone. Peter waited for the agents around the conference table to look through the paperwork before he lit up the screen.  
  
“Vincent Adler…” An extremely blurry photograph of a man’s face appeared on the monitor. “This is the only known picture of him. In 2008, while under investigation for numerous securities violations, he disappeared, along with nine billion dollars of other people’s money. Compared to Bernie Madoff’s scam, that’s small change, but we caught Madoff. Adler vanished as if he never existed.”  
  
Peter tapped the remote and the photos of eight men and one woman were now displayed. “He was famous for keeping an extremely low profile. Even within his own organization, only these people ever saw him face-to-face. His vice presidents and his administrative assistant. No one else.”  
  
Clinton asked the question that everyone else probably wanted to. “The trail has been cold for more than five years, why has this jumped up the priority list?”  
  
Peter tapped the remote again, and another photograph appeared. A clear shot of a man sipping coffee in a fancy restaurant. “This was taken two days ago in Paris. The man has been identified as Claude Ballatin, but we think he might actually be Vincent Adler.” Another tap and the original photo appeared in a side-by-side, with facial recognition markers. “It’s an 82% match. We’ve contacted Interpol, who has helped us liaise with the _Police Nationale_ …” Peter winced at his pronunciation of the French term.  
  
Jones asked, “Are the French cooperating?”  
  
“This is where things get sticky.”  
  
“So, the French are _not_ cooperating.” Jones concluded.  
  
“No – they won’t agree to issue arrest warrants again Ballatin, who seems to be a French citizen, on the basis of mere computer forensics. Unless we have someone who can personally identify Ballatin as Adler, we’re screwed.”  
  
Peter backed up to the shot of Adler’s senior staff. “Each of you is responsible for locating one of Adler’s VPs. You aren’t authorized to make contact until I clear it, but you’ll do in depth investigations on each – tear their lives apart.”  
  
He turned to Clinton. “I want you to do the work up on Neal Caffrey. He’s the only one of the eight who actually did prison time. He’s probably in Otisville or Allenwood – I haven’t checked, but I think he got six years. Maybe we can offer him a few months off his sentence if he cooperates.”  
  
“What about the woman?”  
  
“Kate Moreau – I’ll take her.” Peter picked up a folder. “Okay, everyone – this is priority. We’ll tag up before the end of the day.” The agents scattered, but Clinton stayed behind.  
  
“Why do I feel like someone’s pushing an agenda on us?”  
  
Peter motioned for his right hand agent to go into his office. “Because someone is. The photo is courtesy of the CIA and Ballatin has apparently gotten himself on some pretty serious lists. He’s a registered arms dealer, and apparently been supplying both sides in Syria.”  
  
“And the CIA just made the association between Ballatin and Adler?”  
  
Peter shrugged. The only reason he told Clinton was because the agent, like him, had a TS-level clearance. “I don’t need to tell you that no one else in the office can know about this. All I know is that we need to get to this guy, but the French won’t play ball.”  
  
Clinton grimaced. “I got out of Naval Intelligence because I hated shit like this.”  
  
“I know.” Peter sighed. “But we’ve got a job to do. And if Ballatin is Adler, well – it’s still a win for our side.”  
  
Clinton gave him is customary salute and headed back to his desk. Peter sat down at his desk and started looking for Katherine Moreau. She had been questioned by the FBI after Adler disappeared, and was apparently very convincing in her ignorance about the man she had worked for. When Caffrey took his plea deal, the FBI lost interest and she slipped away.  
  
But apparently only as far as Hillside, Queens, where she was buried next to her father and mother. About a year after Adler did his vanishing act, she had been killed when a small private jet had crashed on take-off. Her body had been recovered and positively identified. Peter made a few notes and closed the file. A sad waste of a life.  
  
Kate Moreau had been an attractive young woman, and she bore a startling resemblance to his ex-wife, at least as far as coloring went. Same long dark hair and large blue eyes. Kate had come to New York after college and landed a job with Adler, which raised all sorts of questions in Peter’s mind. She had been barely old enough to drink, her degree was from a middle-tier college in upstate New York, and she’d majored in art history. Nothing that would qualify her to work for a financial wizard.  
  
But that was a closed book now. The young woman was dead and could tell him nothing.  
  
Even though his staff was doing the research, Peter figured he might as well contribute. Anything to get out of the administrative paperwork that filled his days these days. It would help him get up to speed. He’d been in DC when the Adler investigation went down and hadn’t come back until the case had closed. He knew the players and results of the investigation, but none of the nitty-gritty details. Peter picked a name at random – Robert Caldwell seemed like a good place to start. He was the Chief Financial Officer for the Adler Organization, and worked for the company for the better part of fifteen years. Caldwell had been conveniently out of the country when Adler disappeared, but he agreed to cooperate – from a distance, in exchange for immunity and no extradition. The US Attorney had struck a deal.  
  
He punched in the man’s social security number. Even if he was living abroad, he’d still be paying taxes. Unless he was dead.  
  
Robert Caldwell died from a massive heart attack two days before he was scheduled to give his deposition.  
  
Peter didn’t like what his gut was telling him. He was zero-for-two. The next name on the list was Rajeev Bhara, the head of trading operations. Rajeev hadn’t had a chance to strike a deal, either. He was killed when his car crashed into a barrier on the Cross County Parkway. Police ruled it an accident.  
  
He sat there, staring at the screen, wondering if any of those other men were still alive.  
  
“Peter?” Clinton tapped on his door frame.  
  
“Don’t tell me, Caffrey’s dead, too.”  
  
The man gave him a puzzled look. “No, not dead at all. But he’s not in prison either. He was given four, not six years like you thought. He’s been out for about fifteen months.”  
  
“We’d better find him.”  
  
“That won’t be hard.”  
  
There was something on Clinton’s face that made Peter’s gut churn again. “And why is that?”  
  
Clinton handed him a file. Peter read the contents and hoped his jaw didn’t hit the floor. “You’ve _got_ to be kidding me?”  
  
“Nope. He’s been working there for over a year. IRS says that his tax return lists his profession as ‘bookkeeper’.”  
  
Peter pulled his gun and holster out of the safe and put them on. He grabbed his coat and headed out of the office. He needed to talk to his ex-wife.  
  
Now.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
The last person Elizabeth expected to come bursting into the small downtown Manhattan storefront that housed Burke Premier Events was her ex-husband. They usually got together for drinks and dinner once or twice a month, though lately, he’d been so busy that he’d had to cancel out on her for their last three “dates.”  
  
And not for any good reason, at least in her eyes. He’d taken a promotion that was supposed to mean mostly desk work, except that he told her that he’d been spending ten to twelve hours a day just trying to keep from drowning in the paperwork.  
  
She wished he’d find someone and settle down and be happy. Peter was a man made for domesticity. It was only unfortunate that she wasn’t a man. They’d been happy for the entire eight years of their marriage, committed to each other in ways that their friends couldn’t understand. But she owed no one any explanations. Six years ago, Peter had the opportunity to take a posting in DC – it was too good of a career move to pass up. But she didn’t want to go to DC, her business was going too well to just pick up and relocate.  
  
It seemed like a natural breaking point for them. The divorce was quick and painless. El got the house in Brooklyn, Peter had wanted to pay alimony, but she said no way. Her business was self-supporting, there was no need.  
  
Peter had reluctantly agreed, but snuck behind her back and paid off the mortgage, telling her it was the very least he could do.  
  
She wasn’t sorry that Peter’s assignment in Washington only lasted a year, that she could have stayed in New York and kept up the fiction of their marriage. She just wished that Peter would find a nice man to settle down with. But she also knew that Peter had little patience for the dating game, the rituals of courtship. Which was why setting him up with Neal seemed so perfect.  
  
Neal was adamant, however. She could see his point, too. Peter was, in so many ways, a professional paranoid, and the idea of dating a man who had served time for investment fraud would probably be too hard to sell.  
  
“Peter, what are you doing here?” She didn’t like the look in his eyes or the way his jaw was clenched. A sure sign of aggravation.  
  
“Neal Caffrey – where is he?”  
  
El blinked. “My bookkeeper? What do you want with my bookkeeper?”  
  
Peter ignored her question. “Damnit, El, where is he?”  
  
“Not until you tell me what you want with him.”  
  
“You’ve hired a felon, you know that? Did you know the man did time for investment fraud. Did you know that he was in prison for four years? And you’ve entrusted him with your finances!”  
  
Elizabeth sighed and guessed it was a good thing she hadn’t tried to set Neal up with Peter, if this was her ex’s reaction.  
  
“The answer to your question is yes. I know that Neal did time, and why he did time. And yes, I trust him completely with my finances.”  
  
That seemed to take the wind out of Peter’s sails, but he wasn’t letting go so easily. “So, you just decided to hire a criminal, a white collar criminal? To be charitable? Did you think it might be a good idea to ask me to check him out?”  
  
“Peter, you’re my ex-husband, you don’t run my business or my life. And even if we were still married, I wouldn’t ask you to do a background check on a prospective employee. There are services for that – “  
  
“You don’t need to spend the money, El. I can – “  
  
“Abuse government resources on my behalf?” El held up a hand, stopping Peter in his tracks. “You have got to stop this, Peter.”  
  
“Stop what?”  
  
“Treating me like I can’t stand on my own.”  
  
“El – that’s not true.”  
  
“It’s not? It sure looks that way. You’re now running random checks on my employees?” El felt herself working up a head of steam. How dare he!  
  
“No – I’m not. Not in the least.”  
  
“Then why did you barge in here, ready to play the big, bad Federal Agent.”  
  
“Neal Caffrey’s name came as part of an investigation, El. Jones ran him and found that he’s working for you. Can you imagine my concern?”  
  
It was El’s turn to step back. “An investigation? That’s not right. Neal’s done nothing wrong – he works long days like I do and he does nothing else.”  
  
“Look, I can’t discuss it with you.” Peter moved around her, heading to the back of the shop, where her offices were.  
  
He didn’t get far. Neal stepped into the showroom, his face pale, fists clenched. “What do you want with me, Agent Burke?”  
  
“Neal – “ El stepped between them, and didn’t let Peter by. “I’m going to call Mozzie – you don’t have to talk to the FBI without an attorney present.”  
  
Neal, being Neal and being something of a self-destructive idiot, contradicted her. “That’s not true, unless I’m under arrest.”  
  
And predictably, Peter interrupted. “You’re not calling Moz – “ He turned back to Neal. “And you’re not under arrest.”  
  
“Yet?” Neal asked, challenge dripping from that single word.  
  
If El wasn’t so worried about Neal, she’d clap her hands in delight. She could almost see the sparks flying between them.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
The day had started out with so much promise.  
  
He’d helped El win a big corporate account, a couple getting married for the _third_ decided they needed to be reasonable about their wedding cake, and he’d managed to have a coherent conversation with his mother.  
  
But that promise was rapidly circling the bowl. Even with the door closed, he could hear Elizabeth arguing with her ex-husband about him. He knew it was only a matter of time until the storied Agent Burke found out that his ex-wife was employing a criminal and came storming down here.  
  
Which made the idea of El setting the two of them up on a date more than ridiculous.  
  
 _“You’ve hired a felon, you know that? The man did time for investment fraud. Did you know that he was in prison for four years?”_  
  
Neal sighed. He wasn’t worried that El would fire him or take her ex’s side. He just didn’t want her to have to defend him. At least she wasn’t playing the family card…  
  
 _“Neal Caffrey’s name came as part of an investigation – “_  
  
That was troubling. He’d kept his nose clean, that was for certain. Hell, it wasn’t like he’d been a criminal before his guilty plea. He’d better find out what the FBI wanted with him.  
  
Heading into the showroom, Neal told himself to keep his temper under control. These sorts of things were inevitable. Moz, El’s lawyer, had been quick to tell him that. A nice guy, if a little strange, but Neal had no reason to doubt his advice: “Play it cool and don’t give the Suits anything to latch onto.” They were worse than leeches, according to Moz, and would suck a man dry if he wasn’t careful.  
  
He’d seen pictures of Peter Burke. El kept one on her desk, but the picture couldn’t convey the sheer presence of the man. Neal blinked and caught his breath. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, at least not in the rather ill-fitting suit and regulation haircut, but there was something there that caught Neal and reeled him in like a fish.  
  
He swallowed and clenched his fists, the bite of his fingernails against his palms steadied him and reminded him of the stakes.  
  
El looked furious, and it was nice to know that the anger was as much for him as it was for her own self-esteem. Yes, Peter Burke was definitely a man who’d steamroller over everyone to satisfy his good intentions.  
  
“What do you want with me?” He ignored El’s offer to call Mozzie.  
  
Burke looked around, clearly uncomfortable with having this conversation in the open. “Can we talk somewhere privately?”  
  
Neal wasn’t sure he wanted this man in his office. It was tiny, barely enough room for his workstation and the filing cabinets. But he gestured for the agent to precede him. The man stalked past him. Of course he’d been here before and knew where he was going.  
  
El put a hand on his arm, holding him back. “Are you sure I shouldn’t call Moz?”  
  
Neal shook his head. “Not necessary. Maybe if I have to go down to the FBI offices, but if he’s just fishing for information, there’s no need to get Mozzie involved.”  
  
“No need to make it a federal case?” El grinned at him.  
  
“Cute, really cute.”  
  
“Okay. Let me know if you need me.”  
  
Neal nodded.  
  
El had one more piece of advice. “Peter’s a good man, and he plays it straight. He won’t trick you.”  
  
Neal wasn’t so sure about that. The Feds could lie and cheat in an interrogation if it got them what they wanted. He knew that all too well.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter couldn’t figure out why Neal Caffrey was working for his ex-wife as a bookkeeper. It didn’t make sense. According to the information in the file, Caffrey had been one of the brightest stars on Wall Street before he’d been recruited by Adler. Even though he did time, it didn’t seem plausible that he was the type of man who’d settle for such a low-level job, earning chicken scratch.  
  
He knew all too well that when white collar felons got out of prison, they usually managed to land on their feet, hooking up with old connections, setting up hedge funds and boiler rooms, running just below the radar.  
  
But not Caffrey. He’d gotten out of Otisville a little more than sixteen months ago, and according to his tax return, he’d almost immediately started working for Elizabeth. Which didn’t make sense. His ex-wife knew better than to hire someone who knew how to rob her blind.  
  
Peter wedged himself into the tiny office that Caffrey pointed him to and took the opportunity to look around. Not that he expected to find anything incriminating. Not out in the open. The screensaver was activated and Peter tapped on the keyboard, hoping that it wasn’t password protected.  
  
It was.  
  
He kept an ear open, listening to Caffrey and his wife talk in hushed, urgent tones, but he was unable to make out more than a few words. El wanted to call her friend, Moz. Peter didn’t exactly dislike the man. He was a little different, and not in a good way. More like a paranoid eccentric with occasional delusions. But he was intensely loyal to Elizabeth and in Peter’s book, that was the only thing that mattered.  
  
Caffrey joined him, closing the door and leaning against it. His arms were crossed and the expression on his face was as closed off as his posture. “What do you want from me?”  
  
“Vincent Adler.”  
  
If he’d hoped for a reaction, he was disappointed. Caffrey’s expression didn’t change.  
  
“I worked for him for three years, but you know that. And you know that I did four years in prison because I worked for him.”  
  
 _Interesting_. “You pled guilty to investment fraud and a host of related charges, but you’re saying that the only thing you’re really guilty of is working for Adler?”  
  
Caffrey shrugged, giving nothing else away.  
  
The silence stretched out uncomfortably. “I need something from you. Something very simple.”  
  
“It can’t be all that simple if Vincent Adler’s involved.”  
  
Peter felt a smile curve on his lips. Of course Caffrey was smart. “Actually, in this case it is.”  
  
“I can’t help you find him. I haven’t seen him in five years, seven months and an odd assortment of days.”  
  
“Don’t need you to do that. We’ve found him. Or we think we have.” Peter enjoyed the look of surprise on the other man’s face.  
  
“Then what do you need my help with?”  
  
“Adler was practically a hermit. He was almost never photographed and very few people can give a reliable description. You, however, worked with him on a day-to-day basis. You can identify him.”  
  
Caffrey’s expression closed off again. “No, I can’t.”  
  
“What do you mean? You were part of his inner circle. You know what he looks like.”  
  
“And I won’t identify him for you.” There was ice dripping from his voice.  
  
“Oh, come on – Adler was responsible for your arrest and imprisonment. He left you holding the bag – do you want to get something back?” Peter tried to sound cajoling, friendly.  
  
“No, Agent Burke, I don’t. And you can ask until the ocean swallows the mountains, but there’s nothing you can offer that will make me cooperate and there’s nothing you can do to force my cooperation, either.”  
  
“Mr. Caffrey, surely you’d want to see justice served …”  
  
Neal cut him off. “I did my time, my nose is clean. Now, go away and leave me alone.” He crowded against Peter and opened the door.  
  
Peter didn’t move. He just looked down into Caffrey’s set face, noting the differences from his file photo. In a way, the years in prison had refined him, paring away the youthful roundness, honing the planes on his face, sharpening the edges. At this close distance, he could see the flecks of gray in the man’s stubble.  
  
A part of him – the human part, the part that was a man first, an FBI agent second, also noted that Neal Caffrey was stunningly gorgeous. In that photo – taken five, maybe six years ago, he was just another handsome, fit young man, one of hundreds that worked on Wall Street. Nothing particularly special.  
  
Against his will, Peter found himself wondering what those lips tasted like.  
  
 _What the hell?_  
  
He had absolutely no right to even think those thoughts. Caffrey was a felon, and more importantly, a witness in an on-going investigation.  
  
Peter pushed his way out of the office. “You’re wrong about there being nothing we can do to compel your assistance. You’re a material witness, Mr. Caffrey. I can get a warrant and have you detained indefinitely.”  
  
Caffrey turned pale then flushed, a line of white appeared around his lips. “I think I need to call my lawyer. I won’t be bullied.”  
  
“Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it.”  
  
Elizabeth was standing in the hallway, glaring at him. There was a short, bald, bespectacled man standing next to her.  
  
Moz. Damn.  
  
“Suit – you’re harassing my client. Unless you want to face civil rights charges that will tie you up until your pension runs out, I suggest you leave. Now.”  
  
Peter nodded, but turned back to Neal. “Think about what I told you. This is a chance to get back some of your own.”  
  
Caffrey just stood there, anger and frustration radiating from every muscle.  
  
Peter bent to kiss Elizabeth, but she stepped out of his reach and held up a hand to his face. “I’m not talking to you.”  
  
He sighed. This was not going well at all.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal closed the door, shutting Elizabeth and Mozzie out. Heartsick, he couldn’t deal with them at the moment. It took all of his self-control not to sweep the contents of his desk onto the floor, to cry and scream and rage at the unfairness of everything.  
  
He should have figured that this would happen sooner or later. Adler was always going to turn up, it was inevitable. And someone was going to ask him to identify him. To look into the face of the man who betrayed him and betray him in turn.  
  
 _“This is a chance to get back some of your own.”_  
  
A chance for a little vengeance. A little justice.  
  
It made sense and there was little reason for Neal not to grab hold of that opportunity. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t take that last step. It would mean that everything that happened was for nothing. That he destroyed his life for nothing. That there was no hope left.  
  
Neal covered his face and wept, wishing that his life was different, that he wasn’t this craven, this much of a coward, a fool.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter went back to his office and tried not to let his frustration get the better of him. If Caffrey wasn’t going to cooperate, they’d have to get help from one of the other members of Adler’s inner circle. Despite the threat, it wasn’t going to be all that easy to get a material witness order and compel Caffrey’s cooperation. Caffrey wasn’t a flight risk and to be honest, Peter didn’t have the stomach to carry out that threat.  
  
And his gut was telling him that regardless of his record, Caffrey wasn’t a criminal.  
  
Jones was waiting for him when he walked in the office, and he didn’t like the look on the man’s face.  
  
“What’s the matter?” He headed up to his office and Clinton was just a step behind him.  
  
“You’re not going to believe this, but every single one of Adler’s inner circle is dead. Except for Caffrey.”  
  
An icy knot formed in his gut. “Give me the rundown.”  
  
“Kate Moreau – “  
  
“I know – she was killed in an airplane accident. Caldwell died of a heart attack and Bhara was killed in an automobile accident.”  
  
Clinton picked up from there. “In 2010, Adam Markham was killed in street robbery – never caught the guy, but it looked like a drug buy gone bad. Silvio Carreri committed suicide about a year ago, after his wife took him to the cleaners. Sixteen months ago, William Hunter died while on the operating table – he was having a facelift, except he stroked out. Four years ago, Steven Richardson developed a cardiac infection after gum surgery. Apparently he had an undetected heart murmur. Peter Wylie was in poor shape when he was working for Adler – diabetes that he didn’t take care of, and he died from complications after needing his leg amputated.  
  
“Of the eight men, five died of natural causes during the last five years, plus one suicide and one unsolved homicide. There was nothing to tie these men and their deaths together – they happened at random intervals in completely unrelated locations and circumstances.”  
  
“There’s nothing to make their deaths anything more than a statistical anomaly. Even the homicide and the suicide.”  
  
“Except for Kate Moreau. You might want to add her death to the list of unsolved homicides – the airplane accident wasn’t an accident. I did some digging, there was evidence of tampering in the fuel lines but the NTSB closed the investigation and labelled it faulty wiring. The investigator in charge was fired and the whole thing swept under the rug. I’m going to see if he’s interested in talking.”  
  
“Just be careful, okay?”  
  
“Always.”  
  
Peter leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. “And Neal Caffrey is still alive.”  
  
“Did you find out why Elizabeth hired him?”  
  
“No, but that’s less important than why he won’t talk.” Peter opened the folder with Caffrey’s information. “Start digging. Get everything you can on this guy. Call the Justice Department, the US Attorney probably has cartons of information on him. I want to know his shoe size and his kindergarten teacher’s assessment of his ability to nap. I’ll reach out to the warden at Otisville and find out who visited Caffrey during his stay.”  
  
Peter couldn’t shake the nagging feeling in his gut that something was terribly wrong.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
  
Elizabeth had waited as long as she could before giving into the need to comfort Neal. She’d sent Mozzie off, promising to call if they needed him and she stood on the other side of the closed door, listening to a very strong man cry.  
  
She and Neal went back a long ways, all the back to their childhood. Some of her earliest memories were of playing with a little boy with blue eyes and dark hair. Neal had been a fixture in her life, he always seemed to be there. He might have been a couple of years younger than she was, but they were inseparable.  
  
She couldn’t really remember Neal’s father, but his mother was her mother’s cousin and they were close. When she was little, El figured that Neal must have been a lot like his father because Vivian Caffrey was – in her child’s mind – the exact opposite of her son. She was sad and quiet and always talked in whispers and even though she was technically a cousin, because she was her mother’s age, Elizabeth called her Aunt Vivian. Neal loved her, but he was an active boy, loud and boisterous and inventive. His smile could make every kid in the neighborhood want to join into whatever game he was organizing.  
  
When she was twelve, Neal disappeared out of her life. No letter or postcard or anything. One day they were playing stickball, the next day he was gone. His house was empty and her mother would only say that Neal and his mother had to go away and they wouldn’t ever be back.  
  
El didn’t understand. In her life, people just didn’t leave like that.  
  
Time lessened the aching wound Neal’s absence left in her life, and eventually she forgot about him. Until one evening, about sixteen months ago, when he showed up on her doorstep, looking a hell of a lot older than his thirty-three years.  
  
“What happened to you?” El wasn’t asking about the recent past. She’d get to that eventually. She wanted to know why he’d disappeared.  
  
Neal shrugged. “I – I really don’t know. I remember that it was summer, right after school was out and we’d been playing until it got dark. So it was probably after nine. My mother was frantic and there were these men in suits at the house. Mom told me that we had to leave immediately. I could pack one suitcase, but everything else was left behind. I didn’t want to go. I remember screaming and yelling and begging her to let me stay with you and Aunt Donna and Uncle Allen. But she said no and I couldn’t even leave a letter for you.”  
  
Neal wrapped his arms around himself. “I’m pretty sure that it had something to do with …” He paused and to El’s mind, it seemed like Neal was trying not to lie. “My father.”  
  
“Your father was a cop, right? I remember that. I even remember when he died. I think I was five and my mom and dad telling me I had to be very quiet and very nice to Aunt Vivian.”  
  
“Yeah, I was three when he was killed. In the line of duty.”  
  
“So – eight, nine years later, something happens and you and your mom had to just pick up and leave?”  
  
Neal nodded. “I’m sorry that I never wrote, but my mom said that no one could ever know where we were. I missed you, a lot.”  
  
El made coffee and handed Neal a cup. “And now? Is it safe now?”  
  
He shrugged. “Yeah. There’s no danger. I don’t think there ever was.”  
  
El accepted that and moved on to more pressing questions. “So, what’s going on with you?”  
  
“You mean, why have I just turned up on your doorstep almost twenty years later?”  
  
“That thought has crossed my mind.”  
  
He sighed and met her eyes. “You’ll probably kick me to the curb when I tell you, but you should know.”  
  
“Know what?” She wanted to smack Neal.  
  
“I just got out of prison.”  
  
She blinked, not sure that she’d heard him correctly. “Huh?”  
  
“Not ‘just’ but about week ago.” He didn’t say anything more, now focusing on the contents of his coffee cup.  
  
“Neal?” She hadn’t been afraid, just curious.  
  
“Look, I pled guilty to charges of investment fraud, and spent the last four years as a guest of the Federal Government at the minimum security prison in Otisville, that’s upstate. I’ll understand if you want me to leave.” He put the cup on the counter and stood up. El stopped him.  
  
“Leave? Why?”  
  
“Because – you know. I’m sure you don’t want an ex-con around your family.” Neal looked around, as if he suddenly expected a husband and children to pop out of the woodwork.  
  
“I’m divorced, and no kids. And anyway, even if I had a family, I wouldn’t kick you out. You’re part of my family, too.” She wrapped her arms around him, surprised at how fragile he felt. “You’ve been gone a hell of a long time, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”  
  
And she hadn’t, not that night nor for the next three months. He needed a place to stay, so she gave him her extra bedroom. He needed a job, so she made him her bookkeeper. He needed someone to talk to in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep and he couldn’t stop shaking, she listened and fed him tea and toast and dug out her old photograph albums so they could recapture their history.  
  
Listening to him sob, the sounds were so gut wrenching, she couldn’t stand by any longer. She went into Neal’s office and put a hand on his back, trying to give what comfort she could. “Are you okay?” It was a stupid question, because he wasn’t okay, but she didn’t know what else to do, what else to ask.  
  
So she stood there, just keeping that simple physical connection, hoping that Neal wouldn’t shrug it off, he wouldn’t put on one of his smiling masks and tell her he’d overreacted and everything was fine.  
  
“Thanks.” Neal seemed to get control of himself. “Sorry about that.”  
  
“Nothing to apologize for. I’m sorry that Peter upset you.”  
  
Neal turned around, his face tear streaked, his lashed spiked. He was a beautiful wreck. “He was doing his job, El.”  
  
“Can you talk about it?”  
  
“No – and you’d be better off staying out of the loop.”  
  
“Now you’ve piqued my curiosity.” She tried for a little levity.  
  
Neal gave her a sad smile. “You’re not a cat, El. Your curiosity needs to stay unsatisfied.”  
  
“Okay, but if you need anything…”  
  
Neal understood perfectly. “I will, don’t worry.”  
  
She kissed his forehead, then gave him a hug. It was the best she could do for the moment.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
“The Suits are digging through your life, you know.”  
  
Neal took a sip of his espresso and winced. It was cold and bitter and probably was awful when it was freshly made. “I know. Nothing to stop them.”  
  
“I could lay down some false trails; feed them some disinformation, if you want.”  
  
“Moz, no – “  
  
“It couldn’t hurt, and it would be kind of fun to watch them chase their tails.”  
  
“Moz, please don’t.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because it’ll come back and bite me in the ass, that’s why.”  
  
“You’re not going to give the Suits what they want?”  
  
“No, not if I don’t have to.”  
  
“They can compel you, but if you want to hold out, you know I’ll be right there with you.”  
  
Neal had to smile. “Actually, Moz, you won’t. I’ll be the one in jail on a material witness order; you’ll be home, in your bed, curled up with your favorite conspiracy theories.”  
  
“Yeah, well, but I’ll be with you in spirit.”  
  
“Don’t worry. I doubt it will come to that. I was just the first on their list. I’m sure the Feds will get what they need from Wylie or Hunter. Those two wouldn’t hesitate to roll over, given the right incentive.”  
  
Moz got a strange look on his face.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Um, Neal – Wylie and Hunter are dead.”  
  
“Well, Wylie doesn’t surprise me. He never took care of himself. But Hunter? He was fanatic about chasing the fountain of youth.”  
  
“Neal – they’re all dead.”  
  
“What do you mean they’re all dead?”  
  
“I mean that every single one of Adler’s inner circle, all of his golden boys – except you – are dead.”  
  
“No, that can’t be right,” Neal protested.  
  
“Even Kate Moreau, I very sorry to say.”  
  
“Kate? She was perfectly healthy – you have to be mistaken.”  
  
“There was a small airplane accident. She was killed when the jet crashed on takeoff.” Moz slid a file across the table. “All the data’s in there.”  
  
Neal looked at it, stunned and saddened. He’d worked with these people for years, and while he had been furiously, bitterly angry that not one of them was willing to stand by him, to explain how he wasn’t involved in Adler’s trading organization, he never wanted any of them dead.  
  
And Kate. Pretty, talented, helpless Kate Moreau, who was barely equipped to survive in New York, let alone to work for Vincent Adler. He’d delicately flirted with her, taking delight in making her blush. Taking even greater delight in making … No, better not think about that.  
  
“You might want to think about setting up a failsafe, Neal.”  
  
“Huh?” He looked up at Moz, not getting the man’s point. “Failsafe?”  
  
“You’re the only one alive. Doesn’t that seem a little … sinister?”  
  
Neal looked at the file and the list again. “You’re not saying that Vincent had these guys killed? That doesn’t even seem plausible.”  
  
Moz just shrugged.  
  
“I mean, how do you make someone get a fatal cardiac infection? Or have a stroke on an operating table? One in a hospital in London, the other in Chicago? Moz – I know you’re paranoid and you like to find conspiracy theories in the shape of the clouds, but that’s a little ridiculous.”  
  
Moz crossed his arms over his chest and refused to back down. “Is it, Neal?”  
  
“Look , if Adler was going to do something, why wait all this time? I mean, why not take care of me when I was in prison.”  
  
“Don’t know, but you’re the only person left who can make a reliable identification…”  
  
“Unless he’s had plastic surgery.”  
  
“True – but let’s say he hasn’t or he won’t. And the Suits seem to think that they’ve got a bead on him. From where I sit, that puts a great big target on your back.”  
  
Neal wasn’t prepared to admit that Moz was right, but it didn’t hurt to play along. “You think I should set up a failsafe – how?”  
  
“You’ve got some talent, in the artistic department…”  
  
“Not really, Moz. I can copy anything, but I’ve got no creativity.”  
  
“You don’t need to be creative. You have a good eye and a better memory. I’ve seen your sketchbook.”  
  
Neal didn’t know whether or not he should be outraged at the invasion of privacy. “I’m not following your logic, it’s even more twisted than usual.”  
  
Moz signed and explained, “You can create a very detailed sketch of Adler, I’ll let it be known, through certain ‘channels’ that if anything happens to you, that sketch goes to every law enforcement agency in the world.”  
  
Neal raised an eyebrow at the hyperbole, “In the world?”  
  
“I can send it to Interpol and let them do the heavy lifting.”  
  
Neal nodded, conceding the point. “I think you’re seeing things that aren’t there, Moz. Vincent has no reason to hurt me, and he had nothing to do with this.” He pushed to file back across the table.  
  
“I think you’re making a big mistake, _mon frère_. Think about it.”  
  
“I will.” Neal humored Moz, figuring that if he didn’t, he wouldn’t stop nagging at him.  
  
But Mozzie wasn’t fooled. “I mean it, Neal. Watch your back and don’t take any candy from strangers.”  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter had been an FBI agent for almost two decades. After so many years, the shine had long since worn off his badge. He wasn’t blind to the Bureau’s flaws, but he kept his own personal code of honor. Other agents might take shortcuts, find it easier to comply with questionable directives than challenge them, other agents might be more concerned about their conviction rating. But not him and not anyone in White Collar.  
  
Peter was as proud of his division’s record on civil rights as he was on their closure percentages, and when the former jeopardized the latter, he was more than prepared to sacrifice the percentage points.  
  
Which was why the icy knot of worry in his gut had turned to an acid ball of disgust when Clinton came up to his office to give him the highlights.  
  
“Caffrey was railroaded.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Justice had nothing on him.”  
  
Peter believed Clinton, but needed to play devil’s advocate. “So they got lucky that Caffrey decided to take the plea.”  
  
“No, that’s not what I mean. The U.S. Attorney filed all sorts of charges against Neal Caffrey relating to Adler’s stock trading operation, everything from using inside information to fraudulently misrepresenting valuations, to looting client accounts.”  
  
“Well, they were hoping something would stick. It’s not uncommon to put up a sweeping indictment.”  
  
“It is when there’s not a single shred of evidence linking the defendant to the crimes charged. At best, it was a fishing expedition. At worst, it was guilt by association.”  
  
“Again, Caffrey pleaded guilty.” Peter knew where this was going.  
  
“After the US Attorney told him he was facing life – which was a lie, and that they were going to seize all of his assets, which they couldn’t without any tangible connection to Adler’s criminal activities.”  
  
“That’s all part of the Justice Department’s playbook.” If he was going to attack the conviction, he needed to make sure it was as vulnerable as he hoped.  
  
“Peter – Neal Caffrey worked exclusively as Adler’s VP of Acquisitions. He bought companies for Adler; he didn’t have a single thing to do with any of the man’s investment accounts, trading accounts or client funds. He didn’t even have his own in house account – apparently Adler didn’t give him authority to make direct investments, he needed to go through the employee portfolio. Of all the people in the Adler organization, Neal Caffrey was the one person who should have walked away with a big ‘innocent’ stamp on his file.”  
  
“Okay, that may be true – but how do you get past the fact that he took a guilty plea?”  
  
Clinton shook his head. “Bad advice from his attorney? If the Government was threatening to seize his bank accounts, his attorney was probably looking to cut his losses and told him to take the plea. Wouldn’t be the first time a shark in a good suit sold out his client.”  
  
“Did Caffrey have any dependents?”  
  
Clinton flipped through the file he was holding. “Caffrey’s never been married, no kids, no significant others of record.”  
  
“Parents?”  
  
“Father’s listed as deceased, mother …” Clinton checked another file. “Mother’s in a nursing home in St. Louis. Been there for over a decade.”  
  
“There’s your reason for the guilty plea.” Peter didn’t bother disguising his anger.  
  
It was Jones’ turn to be confused. “I don’t follow.”  
  
“Who do you think was paying for the nursing home?”  
  
“Ah.” The light dawned.  
  
“I bet if you check what Caffrey had and what he turned over to the Government, you’ll find a discrepancy. A million, maybe two. Probably there’s an irrevocable trust set up and when his mother dies, the balance of the trust reverts to the government.”  
  
“Nice.” Clinton sounded disgusted.  
  
Peter was sickened, but he needed to make sure. “Have you spoken with the attorney who was in charge of the prosecution?”  
  
“No, not yet. Wanted to clear it with you first.”  
  
“Good. I think I want to do the talking, find out just how they managed to pin the entire nine-billion dollar Ponzi scheme on the back of an innocent man.”  
  
Clinton smiled, and it wasn’t a nice expression. “Can I come with you?”  
  
“You want to see justice served?”  
  
“With an apple in its mouth.”  
  
Peter laughed, but that was the last bit of humor he’d appreciate for a while.  
  
Alan Davis was your typical high-powered careerist in the US Attorney’s Office. He’d scored big with a handful of high-profile cases, including the plea deal for Neal Caffrey, and had quickly risen through the ranks in the most prestigious division of the Justice Department. He was now the second in command for the entire New York office.  
  
Peter had worked with him on a number of prosecutions, but never had any serious doubts about the man’s ethics. Yes, he was hungry for the limelight, but so was his boss. And well-publicized convictions helped deter other would-be wrong-doers, or so the theory went. Peter now had to wonder how many of those convictions were as flawed as Caffrey’s was.  
  
Peter got right to the point. “Neal Caffrey – you handled the prosecution.”  
  
“I oversaw it, but there were others on the case.” Davis leaned back in his chair, a smug, self-satisfied expression on his face. “Adler might have slipped through our fingers, but we got his right-hand man.”  
  
“Hmmm, his right-hand man. That would have been Rajeev Bhara, Adler’s VP for trading operations. The man who directed all of the stock trading operations for Adler’s funds,” Clinton supplied.  
  
Peter added, with equal helpfulness, “Or Robert Caldwell, who was Adler’s Chief Financial Officer, and the one who signed off on all of the investment account statements.”  
  
Davis shrugged. “Both men died before we could indict. Caffrey was – “  
  
“What, convenient?” He wanted to add, _Easy to manipulate? Too young and unsophisticated to see through your tricks?_ but decided not to antagonize the man. Not yet.  
  
“What are you getting at, Burke?”  
  
Peter ignored the question. “It wasn’t that you didn’t have any concrete evidence linking Caffrey to the charges, you should have known that Caffrey had no connection to Adler’s trading operations.”  
  
“And yet, he copped a plea.” Davis was smug. “Anyways, that’s old water under an older bridge. It’s been half a decade since that prosecution. What’s your interest now?”  
  
Mindful of the source of the information for the alleged sighting of Vincent Adler and even more so of the list of the dead, Peter decided to lie. “Caffrey’s name came up in connection with another Ponzi scheme, but when we did a background check, we found some surprising inconsistencies.”  
  
Davis didn’t seem like he was buying that, so Peter added. “Frankly, I was a little annoyed – we spent two weeks chasing our tails with Caffrey and it turns out that it was a useless lead. I thought maybe you’d have some insight.”  
  
The diversion worked. “Don’t know if I could help – Caffrey was smart, slick, I always got the feeling he could sell ice to Eskimos. You’ve talked to him, right?”  
  
Peter didn’t confirm or deny. “Not all _that_ smart, if he pled guilty to something he didn’t do.”  
  
“Well, maybe he was guilty of something – he worked for Adler for years.”  
  
Peter gave Clinton a subtle gesture and both men got up. “Thanks for your help, Alan – but we’ve got to get back to the office.”  
  
“That Ponzi scheme you’re working on – you’ll keep us informed, right?”  
  
“Of course, as soon as we’re ready to make arrests, we’ll let you know. But right now, it looks like a lot of dead ends.”  
  
“Ah, okay.”  
  
Peter said nothing to Clinton until they were on the street. “Those emails – the ones you found in Caffrey’s files.”  
  
“You mean the ones to Davis from his staff about the lack of evidence to prosecute Caffrey? And Davis’ instructions to get Caffrey to plead guilty, no matter what?”  
  
“Yeah, those. Make copies of them, put the ones from the Justice Department’s files into the evidence lockup. As well as the affidavit from the former NTSB inspector. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”  
  
Clinton grinned. “Already done. Have had the same feelings.”  
  
“This could get very messy, you know.”  
  
“I’m looking forward to it. Been a little quiet lately. Too much mortgage fraud for my tastes.”  
  
Peter laughed. “Hope you don’t regret those words.”  
  
“I won’t. Pity Diana’s still out. She’s going to be sorry she missed this.”  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal was tired. The last week had been no more busier that usual, but he wasn’t sleeping. Between Peter Burke’s chaotic entry into his life and Moz’s paranoiac concern, Neal couldn’t seem to get his brain to shut down. For the last few days, he was going to bed and waking up with splitting headache that no amount of aspirin could seem to fix.  
  
But at least Burke seemed to have given up on him. It had been a week and he hadn’t been back to the showroom, he hadn’t contacted Neal again, and according to Elizabeth, he hadn’t even called her. Maybe it wasn’t too much to hope that the FBI found someone else to identify Adler.  
  
It was a short walk from the subway to his apartment, an old two-family house on the border of Long Island City and Astoria that had been chopped up into six tiny apartments. Probably in another decade, this stretch of no-man’s land between the industrial and residential would become trendy and hipsters would call it “LIC-As” with a straight face.  
  
It was all Neal could do to put one foot in front of the other, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the bed at the end of his journey.  
  
Except that his rendezvous with his mattress was going to be delayed. Peter Burke was sitting on the front stoop, waiting for him in the rapidly fading daylight.  
  
Neal stopped and just shook his head. “I don’t want to talk to you.”  
  
“What if I came here to apologize?”  
  
“Apologize for what? Harassing me? Threatening me?”  
  
Burke sighed. “I wasn’t in possession of all the facts.”  
  
That startled Neal. “What facts?”  
  
“Like how you were railroaded.”  
  
Neal felt like he’d been punched. “What the hell are you talking about, Agent Burke?”  
  
He waited for a pedestrian to pass between them. “Look, can we talk inside? I don’t think this is a conversation you want your neighbors to hear.”  
  
Neal agreed, but wondered if he should call Moz and let him know what was going on. Burke read his mind.  
  
“You may want to call your lawyer.”  
  
He laughed at that. “Then come on, I’ll call Moz when we get upstairs.” Neal pushed past Burke, startled by the heat the man radiated. A stray and inappropriate thought crossed his mind. Something about being a cat and just basking in that warmth.  
  
His apartment was on the third floor, a tiny efficiency with one redeeming feature – a back wall of windows that faced the Manhattan skyline. This was his favorite time of day – the sun setting behind the spires on a crystal clear autumn night, airplanes dotting the sky like so many stars in motion.  
  
Neal gestured for Burke to take a seat, but the man didn’t, choosing instead to look around, to poke at the detritus of his life. Neal couldn’t help but comment, “Welcome to the typical domicile of a _vulgaris Americanorum scelestus_.  
  
Burke grinned. “Somehow, I doubt that anything in here is indicative of a common criminal.” He nodded pointedly at the work in progress on the easel, a copy of Degas’ _Entrance of the Masked Dancers._ “You’re very good.”  
  
Neal stuck his hands in his pants pockets, a little embarrassed. “I can copy anything.”  
  
“That still takes talent. I love art, but I can’t draw worth squat. Even my circles come out looking like demented eggplants.”  
  
He had to chuckle. “You want to know a secret? It’s very hard to draw a good circle freehand, let alone a perfect one.” He picked up a piece of charcoal and a sketchpad, and demonstrated. His effort, while not in the demented eggplant class, was more than a little lopsided. “See?”  
  
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”  
  
“Maybe.” Neal felt himself reluctantly warming towards Agent Burke. He really didn’t want to like the man, but he couldn’t help but respond to the gentle self-deprecation. Anxious to get back on a more adversarial footing, he changed the subject. “You said you came to apologize, that you didn’t have all the facts.”  
  
“And I also said that I know you were railroaded into a confession.”  
  
Neal rubbed his forehead; the low grade headache he had was getting worse. “And you’re more than five years too late. I took the deal the US Attorney offered, I did my time.”  
  
“You also paid a hefty fine.”  
  
“Well, Adler allegedly walked away with billions.”  
  
“Allegedly?” Burke latched onto that word like a terrier onto a rat. “You don’t think he did it?”  
  
Neal was too tired, and suddenly feeling too sick to argue. “What about innocent until proven guilty? Aren’t you here to get my cooperation so you can have the person you think is Adler arrested?”  
  
Burke didn’t answer; he just stared at Neal, then pushed past him and headed into the small kitchen area. “Do you smell that?”  
  
“Smell what?” Neal sniffed, but he couldn’t smell anything. He’d been congested for a few days, which only made the headache worse.  
  
“Rotten eggs. I think you have a gas leak.” Burke picked up his coat and pulled at Neal. “We’ve got to get out of here.”  
  
“Hold on.” Neal dug in his heels; he didn’t understand what was happening. Peter just pulled him out of the apartment and down the stairs, banging on his neighbors’ doors, shouting at them to get out of the building.  
  
“What’s happening?” He stopped, confused.  
  
“Come on, don’t be an idiot.” Burke pushed him and he stumbled, but suddenly there were other people in the hallway, all equally bewildered.  
  
“Everybody, get outside, now.” The agent’s voice boomed above the babble and they obeyed. Outside, Burke remained in charge, herding everyone to the other side of the street, something about getting to a safe distance.  
  
In the cool air, some of the murkiness lifted and Neal took a deep breath, trying to clear his head a bit more. Burke was on his cell phone and in the distance, he heard sirens. Four fire engines approached, as well as a pair of ambulances.  
  
He felt detached, not quite part of the emergency. It was probably an effect of the gas he inhaled.  
  
“How are you doing?” Burke joined him.  
  
Neal shrugged; it was almost too much effort to answer.  
  
The man peered into his face, but Neal turned away and closed his eyes. It was full dark and the reflection of the lights from the emergency vehicles on Burke’s skin was making his headache even worse. All he wanted to do was go back inside and get into bed.  
  
“Here, over here.” Burke was calling out and an EMT approached. “He needs to be checked out.”  
  
The woman smiled, saying “Let’s take a look” before she flashed a light in his eyes and took his pulse.  
  
Neal answered her questions and tried to remain patient as she kept asking his name, his age, his address over and over.  
  
“Okay – probably could use a few minutes on some oxygen – but otherwise, you’ll be fine.” She pulled him over to the ambulance, wrapped a thermal blanket around him and hooked tubing around his head before inserting a nasal cannula. “Inhale normally, just let the flow do its work.”  
  
The oxygen cut through some of the fog that had wrapped around his brain. He watched as the EMT checked out Agent Burke then give him the all-clear. No, not Agent Burke, but _Peter_. He deserved a first name after saving his life. It was a pity he was such a dedicated member of the Bureau, more than a pity, really. If Neal hadn’t been so used up, such an empty shell, he might have reconsidered Elizabeth’s offer to set them up. Peter was everything he liked in a man, strong, determined, principled. Neal laughed at that thought – _fidelity, bravery, integrity_. Everything he once wanted to be.  
  
Neal closed his eyes and tried to stop feeling so sorry for himself.  
  
“Hey, you all right?” His field of vision was filled with the concerned face of Peter Burke.  
  
Neal thought for a moment. “Yeah, I think so.” He rubbed his temples; the headache that had been such a fixture for the past few days was finally dissipating. “Did they say anything about what’s going on?”  
  
“No – and before you ask, I have no idea when you’ll be able to get back into your apartment.”  
  
“Shit.” But it wasn’t all that bad. He had a place to go for the night. Neal reached into his jacket for his phone, but Peter plucked it away. “What?”  
  
“Who are you calling?”  
  
Normally, the dictatorial tone would have sent Neal’s hackles up, but he answered the question. “I was going to call El, see if she could put me up for the night.”  
  
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”  
  
Neal was about to disagree, but remembered the conversation he’d had with Moz at the start of the week. If Moz knew about all those deaths, then the FBI did, too. “Okay.” He reached for the phone, but Peter put it in his pocket.  
  
“Who are you going to call?”  
  
“Ghostbusters?” He must definitely be feeling better, because the snark came without thinking.  
  
Peter grinned. “Seriously, who?”  
  
“Moz – he’s got places – “  
  
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, either.”  
  
Damn, Peter was probably right. In another life, he’d take a room at the Palace, but in another life, he wouldn’t be living in a crappy apartment that had gas leaks. Neal tried to remember if he had enough free on his single, ultra-low limit credit card for a room at one of the cheap, anonymous motels near LaGuardia airport. Maybe Peter could give him a lift.  
  
“You doing okay?” Peter gave him that look again.  
  
Neal pulled out the cannula. The stink from the plastic was making his headache return. He took a deep breath and regretted it, inhaling the diesel fumes from the emergency vehicles was almost as bad. “I think so.”  
  
“Then come on.” Burke tugged at his sleeve.  
  
“You’re taking me to a motel?”  
  
“Nah, someplace better. You’re coming home with me.”  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he went over to Caffrey’s. Talk, tell him the truth in as much as he was able to, and most importantly, try and establish some level of trust between them. He didn’t expect to be taking Neal Caffrey home with him like some lost puppy. But he didn’t see what choice he had.  
  
He didn’t believe, for a single moment, that the gas leak in Neal’s apartment building was accidental. Thankfully, Caffrey seemed to recognize that possibility, too. Peter could have let him find shelter with Mozzie – the little guy was resourceful and probably could keep Neal reasonably safe – but this was a golden opportunity. One he couldn’t let pass him by.  
  
They were almost to the Triboro – Peter could never think of it as the “RFK Bridge” – before Neal said anything.  
  
“You really can drop me at a motel. I promise not to get in touch with El. Or Moz.”  
  
“Nah – it’s no biggie. Besides, we need to finish our conversation.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s true. You were apologizing.”  
  
Stopped at a traffic light, Peter looked over at his passenger. Even though he was holding up his end of the conversation, Neal had his eyes closed. In the flickering light of the passing vehicles, he looked like some wonderful, terrible angel come to rest.  
  
“I was, and I will.”  
  
“Tell me, will you be apologizing on behalf of your employer, or is this a more personal thing?” Neal still didn’t open his eyes.  
  
“For the moment, it’s more personal.”  
  
“But if I cooperate, if I give you what you need, will the apology become ‘official’?”  
  
Peter understood just what Caffrey was implying. He answered honestly. “No. Your assistance will not result in anything other than the gratitude of the FBI in helping to close a case.”  
  
“No quid pro quo, then?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Ah. It would be tricky for you if it did. My veracity would then be called into question if I benefited, somehow.”  
  
Peter wasn’t surprised that Neal made the connection so quickly. Although a perfect GPA at Harvard and an MBA from LSE were indicative of a high degree of intellectual intelligence, it didn’t necessarily guarantee ‘smart’. And if there was one quality he liked in a person, that was it.  
  
For a Thursday evening, the traffic into Manhattan was surprisingly heavy. A truck in the right lane cut him off and Peter hit the brakes, cursing.  
  
“Hey, slow down. No need to impress me with your Formula 1 skills.” Neal finally sat up and took notice of the surroundings. “Where are we?”  
  
Peter passed through the E-Z Pass booth and turned north, onto the FDR. “Heading uptown. I live in Riverside.”  
  
“Hmm, I would have taken you more as a Tudor City kind of guy.”  
  
“I’m an FBI agent, not a Wall Street tycoon. Tudor City’s a little out of my price range.”  
  
“Tudor City’s not that outrageous.”  
  
“Maybe if all you want is a studio or an efficiency. For half the money I’d pay for a shoebox downtown, I have a two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment with a full kitchen. And a view of the bridge.”  
  
Neal didn’t answer, and Peter snuck another look. The man was looking out the passenger window, apparently absorbed by the passing traffic. There was something about Neal Caffrey that sent messages to his gut. Not the warning kind, but he felt like he was missing something, something that should have been obvious.  
  
Maybe if he just tried talking to him, he’d find some of those missing pieces. “You like working for Elizabeth?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
 _That’s it?_ “Known her long?”  
  
“A while.”  
  
Peter ground his teeth in frustration. Getting information out of Caffrey was like pulling a hen’s teeth. “I guess I’m kind of surprised you’re satisfied with being just a bookkeeper.”  
  
“What? No threats about sending me back to prison if there’s so much as a penny’s discrepancy in the accounts?”  
  
Peter wasn’t surprised at the bitterness, remembering their less-than-auspicious introduction last week. “No, and I know you’re not a criminal. I figured you would have tried to get back into the game.”  
  
“Game?”  
  
“You know, wheeling and dealing. You were quite the star in the M &A firmament.”  
  
“That was before …” Neal stopped, as if he couldn’t say the name.  
  
“Still, you must have had connections. Someone would have been interested in taking you on.”  
  
“I pled guilty, Peter. My friends were mildly sympathetic, but mostly relieved that they weren’t in my position. No one was going to hire me, not while I was still reeking of prison and such a close connection to – “ Neal paused and swallowed, but this time he got the name out. “Vincent Adler.”  
  
Peter wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t belabor the subject. “So – you and Elizabeth?”  
  
“Me and Elizabeth, what?”  
  
He sighed, trying not to be such a bull in a china shop. “Are you – ?”  
  
“Are we, what?”  
  
Now Peter had a feeling Neal was being deliberately obtuse. “Are you two seeing each other?”  
  
“We see each other every day, pretty much – unless El has an appointment that keeps her out of the office.”  
  
“That’s not what I mean. Are you dating?”  
  
“Dating?”  
  
“Yeah, dating? Romantically involved?”  
  
“Is that really any of your business?” Peter couldn’t identify the odd emotion in that question.  
  
“Look, I’m not asking for your intentions, it’s just that El is important to me and I don’t want to see her hurt.”  
  
“El’s important to me, too.”  
  
“So you _are_ dating.”  
  
“Well, actually – that would be kind of awkward.” Neal chuckled, but it wasn’t a mean sound.  
  
Peter wasn’t sure what was so funny, but he plowed ahead. “Why? Because you work for her?”  
  
“No, because she’s been trying to fix me up with you for the last few months.”  
  
Peter hit the brakes, hard. “Damn it.”  
  
“Everything all right?” Neal’s tone was positively angelic.  
  
“I should have seen that coming a mile out. But no… I just stepped right into it.”  
  
“What’s the matter? What should you have seen?”  
  
“I have a ninety-three percent conviction rating. That’s one of the highest in the Bureau. You know why?”  
  
“No, I don’t.”  
  
Peter didn’t blame Neal for sounding puzzled. “My gut. I have learned to trust my instincts. They are pretty damn good.”  
  
“What’s that got to do with anything?”  
  
“They are one dimensional, though. They only seem to function when it comes to criminal matters. I knew that my neighbor – who I’d met once – was dealing drugs. I knew you _weren’t_ a criminal as soon as we finished talking last week. But when it comes to anything else, those damn instincts are practically nonexistent.”  
  
“Ah, you’re saying that you don’t have a functioning gaydar.”  
  
“Looks that way.”  
  
“Well, many men in your position don’t.”  
  
“My position?” Peter was confused by Neal’s cryptic reply.  
  
“Yeah – in the closet.”  
  
Peter took a deep breath, tapped on the brakes and coasted to a stop at the light. He took another deep breath, to avoid the inevitable explosion of temper. “Why do you think I’m in the closet?”  
  
“Well, doesn’t the FBI have a policy?”  
  
“You mean ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’?”  
  
“Yeah – that’s it.”  
  
“That _was_ the military. You probably missed it, being incarcerated, but that policy was repealed about two years ago. The FBI doesn’t have a policy – or if it does, it’s ‘don’t ask, don’t care’. I’m not in the closet, I never was.”  
  
“But you were married.”  
  
“I was. So, Elizabeth never told you why we were married?”  
  
“No, and I didn’t want to pry.”  
  
“Ah, well – it’s not my story to tell, but rest assured, it had nothing to do with me needing a beard.”  
  
Neal lapsed into silence and Peter decided to let the conversation drop. It had started to drizzle, so it was probably best that he stayed focused on the traffic, rather than on awkwardly personal questions. Soon enough, he turned onto Riverside Drive and the traffic gods were smiling as the lights stayed green. Five minutes later, he pulled into a small, residents-only parking lot, surprisingly grateful to be home.  
  
His apartment was on the sixth floor, and as he’d told Neal, it overlooked the river and the George Washington Bridge. He’d bought the place almost immediately after relocating back to New York. El had offered to let him stay at the house in Brooklyn, and he’d taken her up on the offer, but only long enough to realize that he didn’t belong there anymore. Not that they’d argued or rubbed each other wrong. It just felt like he was moving backwards.  
  
“Nice place – I bet the light is spectacular.” Neal headed right to the bay windows.  
  
“It is. One of the reasons why I took this place.”  
  
Neal stayed plastered to the window and Peter kept the lights on low, so he could enjoy the view. He went to the fridge and retrieved two bottles of beer before joining Neal and offering him one. They stood there – and the silence, this time, was companionable.  
  
At least until Neal spoke. “I’m a target, aren’t I?”  
  
“Yeah. I’ve sent in ERT to work with the fire department, and I’m thinking that they won’t find anything that points to a deliberate rupture, but if someone can manage to give a person a cardiac infection, he can make a gas leak seem like an accident. They’ll probably just turn up a worn fitting, something to blame on age and bad maintenance. You would have either been killed in an explosion or died from inhalation.”  
  
Neal didn’t say anything and Peter could feel the tension radiating off him. “Moz told me to set up a failsafe. He thought I was in danger, too.”  
  
“Failsafe?”  
  
Neal didn’t answer right away and Peter wondered if this was heading into dangerous territory.  
  
“He wanted me to make a sketch of Adler and give it to him. Moz said he’d put out word that if anything happened to me, the sketch would go to Interpol.”  
  
Peter’s appreciation for the quirky little guy went up about a dozen notches. “Did you?”  
  
“No.”  
  
This was one of the moments when Peter knew he needed to listen to his gut, which was telling him to back off. He finished the beer and casually asked, “How does pizza for dinner sound?”  
  
Neal gave him a grateful smile. “As long as there are no green peppers, I’m good.”  
  
“No worries, not a fan either.” He walked away from the window, tugging at Neal. “Let me show you the guest room. It doubles as my office and storage space, but there’s a good bed and nice view from the window, too.”  
  
“Windows are good. Thanks.”  
  
Peter was a little puzzled by that comment until he remembered that Neal spent four years in a small room without any windows.  
  
In truth, he rarely used the second bedroom as an office, preferring to work in the living room or the dining area, and tried to remember when he’d last changed the sheets. Or even if the bed was made.  
  
It was and, thankfully, the room was fairly well organized. He’d forgotten that he’d taken a bunch of boxes down to his storage locker. It wasn’t grand, but it did look more like a guest room than a dumping ground.  
  
The first thing Neal did, not surprisingly, was go to the window and open the shades.  
  
“Okay, so it’s not such a nice view.” Peter didn’t know why he felt the need to apologize for the view of the building’s small courtyard.  
  
“It’s fine. Thank you.”  
  
The moment turned awkward for Peter as he realized that he was alone in a bedroom with Neal Caffrey, a man his ex-wife thought would be a romantic prospect for him. “Um, I’m going to order that pizza – no green peppers, right?”  
  
Neal smiled, and for the first time, Peter got the full effect of that expression.  
  
“Right. Ah – can I have my cell phone back?”  
  
He didn’t exactly want to return it, but couldn’t think of a reason to justify keeping it. He handed it back to Neal.  
  
“I need to call Moz, need to tell him what’s happened.”  
  
Peter nodded. “Yeah – good idea. I’ll give you some privacy. Join me in the living room when you’re done.”  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Neal couldn’t reach Moz, and left a brief and semi-cryptic message, instead. “I’m fine, in the Suit’s closet, no moths.” Even if Mozzie didn’t understand, he’d call back anyway, if just to get it deciphered.  
  
He could hear Peter’s half of a conversation, and it didn’t sound like he was talking to the local pizza place. _“Be careful, Clinton. We still don’t know what we’re dealing with. I don’t want to add anyone else to the list of bodies.”_  
  
There was a pause.  
  
 _“Caffrey’s safe with me.”_ And then, _No, you don’t have to send the van around, we’ll be fine.”_  
  
The van? That puzzled Neal.  
  
 _“Look, we know the truth about Neal Caffrey, and we’re not the only ones. Can you get in touch with our old friend? We may need ears.”_  
  
Neal wondered just who that old friend was and what clandestine service he worked for. Peter ended the call and Neal figured he might as well join Peter in the living room.  
  
“Hey there.”  
  
Peter looked up from a file. “Hey, yourself. Pizza’s ordered. Just checked in with the office – which I presume you heard.”  
  
Neal shook his head. “El said you were a straight shooter.”  
  
A charming flush darkened the other man’s cheeks. “Yeah, well.”  
  
“Are you really sure it’s safe for me to stay here?”  
  
“It should be. Whoever is behind this is subtle, working well below the radar. Other than Kate Moreau’s death, everyone else died in pretty ordinary circumstances.”  
  
“Adam Markham was murdered.”  
  
“A drug buy gone wrong – he was in a bad neighborhood and flashing a lot of cash. Plenty of witnesses but no one saw anything.”  
  
“Yeah – and that makes sense. Adam was a cocaine user and a risk junkie. Surprised he didn’t die in a BASE jumping accident.”  
  
Peter nodded. “Anyway, I can’t see the man behind the curtain making a frontal assault, not on an FBI agent’s home. Too much publicity. You’ll stick with me until we figure this out.”  
  
Neal wasn’t sure he wanted to fall into this plan so easily. “How’s that going to work, Agent Burke? I have a job to do.”  
  
“Well, you’ll have to take time off. El _is_ giving you paid vacation, right?”  
  
Neal sighed, trying not get visibly frustrated. “Yes, and that’s not the problem. I don’t like the idea of being cooped up, locked in a cage. You have to understand that.”  
  
Peter grimaced. “Yeah, I guess I do. But it’s either me or the U.S. Marshals and a safe house, which is even more of a cage. And I can’t guarantee your safety unless I have my eyes on you.”  
  
“You don’t trust the Marshals?” Neal swallowed, the idea of being subject to the whims of the Witness Security program was nauseating.  
  
“It’s not that I don’t trust them, it’s that I don’t trust them.” Peter scrubbed a hand over his face. “Look, I only trust my own team. And there was an incident a few years ago.”  
  
“Incident?”  
  
“Yeah, can’t really go into it, but we had a situation that resulted in a general housecleaning. So let’s just say that I’m not exactly the Marshal Service’s favorite agent.”  
  
“I guess, then, I’m cuffed to your side until this is over.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess you are.” Peter gave him a twisted smile. “And don’t worry, I’ll talk to Elizabeth, I’ll make her understand.”  
  
“Thanks.” There was really nothing more he could say. He wasn’t really worried about losing his job – more that El would make a complete and total mess of the accounting system he’d needed the better part of a year to set up. Maybe he could work remotely.  
  
Peter turned his attention back to his files and folders and Neal took the opportunity to investigate the apartment. It was a lovely example of pre-War architecture with generous proportions in the living space, original art deco details. Despite the fairly ordinary furnishings, it reminded him of something out of an old movie – one of those screwball comedies from the thirties.  
  
A buzzer sounded and Peter got up. “That’s the pizza. Although I doubt the delivery guy is a professional hit man, I’ll go down and get it. Better to be safe than sorry.”  
  
To Neal’s surprise, Peter put back on his shoulder holster and checked his weapon. He didn’t bother with a jacket.  
  
“Wait here. If I don’t come back, call this number.” He handed Neal a piece of paper with a name – Clinton Jones – and a telephone number. “And whatever you do – if you do have to make the call – don’t answer the door until you’re sure it’s the FBI on the other side.”  
  
Despite the deadly seriousness of Peter’s instructions, Neal joked, “Then just come back. I’m hungry.”  
  
Peter gave him a smile and left.  
  
Positive that Peter would be back with the pizza in a few short minutes, Neal found his way to the kitchen. It was definitely pre-War, a narrow galley with smaller versions of modern appliances. It didn’t take much to find plates and silverware. He took out knives and forks but put them back. Peter Burke was not the kind of man who ate pizza with a knife and fork.  
  
Neal couldn’t find napkins, so he grabbed the roll of paper towels and couldn’t help but feel like this was really just a very strange first date.  
  
He’d finished setting the table when he heard a key turn in the lock. “Just me – everything’s fine.” Peter came in, carrying the promised box with a grease-stained paper bag on top. “I got us some zeppolis for dessert.”  
  
“I take it that the delivery guy wasn’t a professional hitter.”  
  
“No, just Aldo, who’s been making deliveries for Uncle Pietro’s for the last fifteen years.”  
  
“Your, er – accessories didn’t freak him out?” Neal pointed with his chin at Peter’s shoulder rig and weapon.  
  
“Nah – Aldo’s eldest is a detective with the Two-Six. He’s accustomed to this.” Peter set the box down, but to Neal’s surprise, didn’t take the holster off. “Thanks for setting the table. Want another beer now?”  
  
“Sure. No problem.”  
  
Peter got a pair of fresh bottles from the kitchen and they sat down to eat. Neal had joked about being hungry, but was kind of shocked to realize just what an appetite he actually had.  
  
They both accounted for two slices and while the contents of that brown bag smelled enticing, he figured he’d wait a little while, let the pizza digest. Peter told him to sit while he cleaned up and Neal just moved into the living room and enjoyed the view. A fog was rolling in, draping the bridge in an orange glow.  
  
Peter swapped his beer for a glass of something – club soda – and sat down across from him.  
  
“You want me sober for a reason?”  
  
“Yeah.” Peter sighed and drained his own glass. “We need to talk, Neal.”  
  
“I guess we do.” He wondered how much pressure Peter was going to put on him to get him to help identify Adler. He was surprised, though, when Peter asked him something completely different.  
  
“Why did you do it?”  
  
“Do what?” Neal wasn’t being deliberately obtuse, he really didn’t know what Peter was asking about.  
  
“Damn it, don’t play word games with me. You know what I’m talking about. Why did you plead guilty?”  
  
 _Ah._ “Are you so sure I wasn’t?” It was second nature to deflect like this.  
  
“Caffrey, I swear… ” Burke’s frustration was palpable.  
  
“Why is it important to you?”  
  
“Because, in my experience – and that experience is considerable – innocent men don’t plead guilty without a good reason.”  
  
“And you’re positive I’m innocent?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
The simple nature of Peter’s answer gave Neal pause. Whatever his initial motives, Peter now seemed to care about him. It had been a long time since someone believed in him like this. Not that El didn’t count, but she was family.  
  
“It’s simple. I was meant to be someone else.”  
  
“I don’t understand. What does that mean?”  
  
Neal took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be easy. He’d never told anyone about this, not Elizabeth, not even Vincent. Only one other person knew the truth and she had been in a residential care facility for almost a decade. “When I was three, my father was killed. He was a cop, shot in the line of duty. A hero.”  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Peter didn’t say anything. He just let Neal tell the story at his own pace.  
  
“When I was little, I wanted to be a cop, just like him. That was all I could imagine doing. I had this master plan – I’d graduate high school, apply to the police academy, and become the youngest police captain in the history of the city. I’d be a hero like my dad, only better, because I wouldn’t get shot and killed. It was a little boy’s dream.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
Neal shrugged. “Life, I guess. I found other things that interested me. But when I was in college – “  
  
“You went to Harvard.” During the past few days, Peter had memorized Neal Caffrey’s biography. He knew about his education, but there had been nothing in the record about his father.  
  
“Yeah, Harvard. In my junior year, I had an open elective slot. I’d been on track to go to Business School, but I was also flirting with the idea of practicing law. So, I took a class in criminal justice. It was like a whole new world opened up. The professor was a retired FBI agent, a former assistant director, and she made me dream those old dreams again. But different – instead of the local PD, I’d apply to the FBI and make my mark there.”  
  
Peter vaguely recalled the criminal justice class on Neal’s transcript.  
  
“And did you?”  
  
Neal gave him a look, like he was asking a question that he already knew the answer to.  
  
“Yes. The professor was thrilled with the idea; she thought I’d be a brilliant candidate. She gave me an excellent recommendation, she corralled other retired agents, a member of congress to spend time and interview me so I could have their recommendations, too. Normally the FBI requires a couple of years of post-college experience, but they do make exceptions for qualified Ivy League graduates.”  
  
Peter nodded. “I know that.”  
  
Neal blinked, “You?”  
  
“Harvard, Class of ‘87. Went right into the new agent training program.”  
  
The look Neal gave him was both bitter and envious. “Lucky man.”  
  
Peter brought the conversation back around to Neal’s story. “What happened?”  
  
“Don’t you know?”  
  
“No, I don’t.”  
  
“I would have thought that it was all in my FBI file.”  
  
“Not the one I’ve seen.” Peter was troubled. This information _should_ have been in the file sent over from the Justice Department. “You applied?”  
  
Neal seemed to fold in on himself. “And was rejected.”  
  
Peter wasn’t sure what to say. Neal sounded like he was still heartbroken over the rebuff. “Thousands of qualified candidates apply every year; the Bureau accepts only a small fraction. I know it must seem unfair, after everything – all the encouragement and recommendations.”  
  
“I know. But the professor – the one who’d encouraged me to apply – was shocked that the FBI turned me down. She told me that she’d never seen the Bureau reject an Ivy League applicant with a perfect GPA, plus firearms training, and a Congressional recommendation. She said it didn’t make sense and she’d find out what happened, what I’d need to do to reapply.”  
  
Peter wasn’t sure that that was even possible, but it sounded like Neal’s professor was someone with a lot of juice, so maybe. “Did she get an answer for you?”  
  
“No. And the funny thing was that after a week of waiting, I called her. She didn’t return my call. I kept calling and her secretary told me that she wasn’t taking my calls and to stop trying to contact her. I tracked her down after class and she practically ran from me.”  
  
“That seems bizarre.”  
  
“Yeah, it was. And I got called to the Dean’s office and told that under no uncertain terms was I was to try to talk to the professor or try to see her or otherwise make contact. I had a stellar academic record and wouldn’t it be a shame if I had a black mark on it? The Dean used words like restraining order and stalking and inappropriate student/teacher contact.”  
  
Peter didn’t know what to say to that.  
  
Neal continued the story. “So, I had no choice and I let it go. After all I had obligations.”  
  
That piqued Peter’s curiosity. “Obligations?”  
  
“My mother. She was becoming … unwell. I knew I was going to need to have to take care of her, so I told myself that becoming an FBI agent wasn’t a good idea. A government salary probably wouldn’t stretch too far supporting both of us. So, when Wharton and the London School of Economics came knocking, I jumped at the opportunity.”  
  
“You were top of your class at LSE. I read your Master’s Thesis on competitive market strategies.”  
  
Neal laughed. “After the review committee, you’re probably only the third person to do so.”  
  
“Third?”  
  
Neal’s smile was bitter. “My mother and Vincent Adler were the other two.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
They lapsed into silence, but Peter was patient. Neal wasn’t a man who’d let the point slip away.  
  
“I suppose you’re wondering at what this has to do with why I pleaded guilty.”  
  
“I figured you’d get around to it.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“For what?” Neal’s gratitude was puzzling.  
  
“Being patient, listening.” He looked at his hands. “I’ve never told this to anyone, not even Elizabeth.”  
  
Peter again wondered at Neal’s connection to his ex-wife, but this wasn’t the time to press for answers.  
  
“So – the end of the story. The reason why Neal Caffrey decided to stop fighting and go to prison.”  
  
“You don’t have to tell me. Not if it hurts too much.”  
  
“No, I should. It’s not like you’re going to use it against me.”  
  
Peter marveled at Neal’s faith in him. It didn’t seem like he’d earned that level of trust. “What happened?”  
  
“You know that the Justice Department had tried to get me to roll on Adler – before Adler disappeared.”  
  
“Yes, that was in the file. You refused to give evidence, even with an offer of immunity.”  
  
“I knew nothing, but more than that, I didn’t believe that Adler was guilty of anything they were accusing him of. I wasn’t part of the trading operation, but I …” Neal shook his head, the memories troubling him. “I trusted Vincent, and I wasn’t going to lie to the government and help them make a nonexistent case against someone who did nothing wrong.”  
  
“Loyalty is important.” Peter tried not to pity Neal.  
  
“And it’s also a two-way street. I was loyal to Vincent; I thought he’d be loyal to me.”  
  
“But he wasn’t.”  
  
Neal shrugged. “Obviously not. And no one else in the organization backed me after Adler took off. They were too busy striking their own deals.”  
  
“You could have fought the charges. The Justice Department had no evidence and you would have walked away clean.”  
  
“I didn’t know that. I thought that maybe the others had pointed the finger at me. For a while, the last few years, Vincent and I were very close. There was some resentment.”  
  
Not for the first time, Peter noticed how Neal’s tone changed when he talked about Adler. It was something to file away, another Neal Caffrey mystery to explore.  
  
“The U.S. Attorney said that the Government had a smoking gun, there was absolute proof of my involvement in three years’ worth of insider trading, stock manipulation, fraudulent asset reporting. You name it, I’d been involved in it. He threatened to have my assets seized under some IRS rules about income and property obtained from criminal enterprises. The IRS apparently doesn’t need a conviction, they can seize anything with minimal evidence.”  
  
Peter was pretty sure that that wasn’t completely true or applicable in this case.  
  
Neal paused and wiped at his mouth. Peter thought he looked like he was becoming ill. _He_ was becoming ill, listening to this miscarriage of justice.  
  
“My attorney – not Moz, you know – he was making noises about negotiating a plea. After all, if the Government took my bank accounts, he wouldn’t get paid. And I had my mother to worry about. She was in residential care already, and needed full-time nursing in a private facility. I had to be able to pay for that.”  
  
“So you took the plea, negotiated with the Justice Department to set up a trust for your mother’s care, and went to jail.”  
  
Neal shook his head. “No – not then. They were putting the screws on me – even threatening me with life, but I was still convinced that it was all a mistake. I was _very_ naive.”  
  
“How did they get you to change your mind, then?” Peter was almost afraid of Neal’s answer.  
  
“They showed me a file. An old file.”  
  
Peter thought back to the documents that he’d gotten from the U.S. Attorney’s office. There was no old file or reference to an old file in the prosecution’s papers. “What was in it?”  
  
“Remember what I told you about my father?”  
  
“Yes – you said he’d died when you were three. He was killed in the line of duty.”  
  
Neal laughed, but it wasn’t a nice sound. “He was killed in a drug bust gone bad. What I didn’t know was that he was the one selling the drugs. He and his partner where working for the Irish mob and were the key players in a heroin distribution ring that stretched from Boston to Miami. The Feds were onto him, but the local precinct – my father’s precinct – didn’t know that the Feds were investigating. They raided the warehouse where a major buy was taking place. My father was killed in the takedown. Killed by his own squad, who covered everything up when they realized what happened.”  
  
Peter just sat there, appalled.  
  
“I grew up believing that my father was a good man, a hero. That he was someone to look up to and that his memory should be honored. He was nothing more than a liar and a drug dealer and a murderer. He’d been suspected in a dozen killings – rival gang members, whole families of the men who’d gotten in his way. He was my father and he was evil. That’s why my application to the FBI was rejected. Just imagine, James Caffrey’s son as an FBI agent? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, apparently.”  
  
“No – that’s not true. You were a good man, you _are_ a good man. You’re nothing like him.”  
  
Neal didn’t seem to hear him. “I didn’t want to believe it, but it was all there. There was a file three inches thick, detailing dozens of terrible crimes he committed. If the local PD hadn’t jumped the gun twenty-five years before, James Caffrey would have been tried and convicted and spent the rest of his life in prison, instead of becoming a hero.”  
  
There was something about Neal’s story that bothered Peter. Not that he thought Neal was lying. But there were things that didn’t make sense.  
  
“In the end, I just gave up. There seemed no point in fighting anymore. At least my lawyer struck the best possible deal for me. Four years, I could put a couple of million into a trust for my mother, and turn the rest over to the government.”  
  
“Neal – ”  
  
Neal cut him off. “No, don’t. It’s done. I served my time. I got out and was lucky enough to have someone help me get a fresh start. I don’t want to look back anymore.”  
  
“No regrets?”  
  
“Oh, not hardly, but I can’t dine out on regrets.” Neal picked up his glass and finished the club soda, grimacing at the flat staleness.  
  
Peter wanted to make promises. He wanted to exonerate Neal, to get his life back for him, to make the people who deliberately destroyed such a promising future pay for what they did. But Peter knew those promises were dangerous. Almost as dangerous as the sympathy he had for Neal. And still not even half as dangerous as this attraction that felt so damned inevitable.  
  
“I’ll help you.” Neal’s quiet words startled Peter.  
  
“Why? What changed your mind?”  
  
“Adler tried to kill me. And everyone else in my apartment building, too. I can’t ignore that and I can’t keep pretending that Vincent isn’t as evil as my father. If I’m really _not_ my father’s son, I need to do something to prove that.”  
  
Peter was relieved, but worried. He knew that keeping Neal safe was going to be difficult. Safe from Adler, and safe from him, too. But all he said was “Thank you.”  
  


FIN

 


End file.
